


Sometimes, i need you

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Series: our souls are fractured but whole as one [2]
Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, slow-ish build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes—</p><p>Sometimes, Will wishes thinking isn't a real thing, that these petty little thought that occupy his mind—during an interrogation of a fugitive, or when making his coffee wrong with bitterness and burning his tongue, or in bed, the most intimate place of all—because each time, he thinks of Wolfgang. </p><p>(The one where Will needs him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, i need you

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings of explicit sexual content. Unbeta'd, so expect mistakes.

Sometimes—

Sometimes, Will wishes thinking isn't a real thing, that these petty little thought that occupy his mind—during an interrogation of a fugitive, or when making his coffee wrong with bitterness and burning his tongue, or in bed, the most intimate place of all—because each time, he thinks of Wolfgang. He thinks of Wolfgang and sometimes, Wolfgang comes to him; only glances, standing in the corner of his bedroom or outside the window of the station, until he feels the exasperation, the frustration of constantly being called for no other reason than daydreaming, the sensation deep in his chest that mixes with the pain that faintly lingers.

He remembers that night. It doesn't matter when it happened; it could've happened two nights or two years ago, but all Will can think about is the fact it happened. The night where, against all odds, Wolfgang looked at him. It's crazy, fact. To think he's analysing it too much, so much that he can't use his occupational skillset as an excuse, but it wasn't just sex, the same as how he and the other sensates aren't just friends.

The feel of Wolfgang's hands on him, smooth skin under Will's, aches in his neck and shoulder from where teeth had sunk into them, leaving dark hickeys. It reminds him of being a teenager again, the excitement of sex, yet a terrifying clutch of ice in his chest from what he wants and why it can't be anything more according to Wolfgang. He agrees, sometimes, looking, hearing, feeling the other sensates, this compliated life of theirs as one, so Will can see why it can't work; a thief and a cop, misplaced morals, but in this rebirth, some don't seem to apply anymore. Is it enough to stop the thoughts? No, of course not. Wolfgang doesn't give a fuck, at least he doesn't seem to, and Will is the one who feels it for him—which, in a way, does make them both feel it, yet one is real and the other a replica.

Sometimes.

Just sometimes, does he have these thoughts he wishes he never had.

As Will sighs, a tired, drawn noise that empties his lungs, along with the vibrating of train tracks as it rumbles past his window, he closes his eyes and wills for sleep. The darkness creeps into his vision, and he feels the pleasure of Wolfgang as he takes the woman he met in a German bar, and as he tries to ward it off, he thinks of how at least one of them hadn't needed to wish for silence at all.

—

He always senses it before he sees him.

On the edge of his bed, Wolfgang sits, and he stares at the corner of the room. As Will sits up, he sees what Wolfgang does, a new, sharp rush of feeling along with it. They're in a hospital ward, a heart monitor beating steadily, and a man lays unconsious in the bed, chest rising and falling with the ventilator. The atmosphere weighs down from the way Wolfgang leans in close, head bowed, and eyes never leaving the man's face, because Will wonders if he's supposed to be here—he must, Wolfgang called out to him, after all, and yet.

Will keeps his distance, crossing his arms over the white vest he wears. "What happened to him?"

Unmoving, "Shot."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Wolfgang says, and he shrugs, a jerky movement. "It was my fault."

A tired sigh fills the silence that follows; the monitor, the sun flittering through the blinds, the white knuckles of Wolfgang's hands as he clenches the sheets tight, matching the sensation in their chests, shared but no less ignored, are all the reasons why Will can't force himself to leave. It's why he takes the slightest step closer, and in response Wolfgang flinches, breathing through his nose.

"You can't—" He stops himself from the shock in his voice, too harsh to his own ears. Wolfgang's hand clenches harder, bones clicking and his jaw working, and a jolt of irritation ripples within him, ricocheting into Will, and he knows to not move any closer. It makes him think whether projecting out to him had been intentional, and even if it had, whether or not Wolfgang had been relucant to do so. Either way, Will can't leave, doesn't want to leave, not like this, so instead asks, "How?"

"He chose to be my friend," he says, frowning. "I brought him here."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not no one's." Another frown, then finally, after what Will had thought he'd never do, Wolfgang looks at him. His eyes, ringed with dark circles, stare back at him in a blank slate, his skin tightly pulled over his cheekbones. Will swallowed around a sudden heaviness in his throat, drying up as Wolfgang says, "You're in your apartment?"

Several things run through his head; if Wolfgang wants to visit him and have just sex, a deflection, a coping mechanism for the rage that Will can feel growing within them, Will doesn't want it, not this time; if Wolfgang wants to know simply out of wonder, or the unlikely chance, out of protection, perhaps a chain reaction of this, reaching out to the sensates. Being the first time they've spoken since then, with each passing moment, with the discomfort and irritation and building anger, Will thinks this is an accidental cry for help—or that it is, and Will can't dechipher the difference anymore. So much for being a cop.

The next moment they're in Will's apartment, Wolfgang wandering round, the sun against his back, the muscles taunt underneath his jacket, the way he moves across the room. Will stays where he is, sheets tangled around his lap, heart thudding uncomfortably in his ribcage, and if Wolfgang can feel it, he doesn't pay any mind. He stops at the TV, where Will's DVDs lay scattered around it. Then, he chuckles, a light noise but void of humour. He lifts one of the cases, Conan the Barbarian.

"Felix loved this movie," Wolfgang says. "He loved movies, but this one we'd always watch as kids. Quote them."

"Yeah?"

Wolfgang nods. "It made me wonder why he liked me, why he wanted to be my friend, even though he'd be hated for it."

They're back in the hospital room, cold and lacking happiness. As Wolfgang grasps hold on Felix's hand, releasing a shaky breath, the exhaustion set in his gaze, Will knows he's been sitting in that chair for what probably feels like an eternity. "He's like family to you."

"He's my brother."

It takes a few moments to realise, to see that Wolfgang resting his forehead atop his and Felix's hands, that it's his cue to leave. So, he does, breaking the connection and finding himself back in his apartment, in a mess of sheets and wheels screeching on the train tracks. He realises that, even in the twisted things he's had wrap his head around these few days, he's in much deeper shit now.

—

 "Wolfgan—"

"Shut up, cop," is the first thing he says when he ambushes Will in the evening, "and fucking kiss me."

Hands are fisted around bunches of his vest, dragged forward until he can feel the heavy, sharp gusts of breath. His heart thuds, mingling with his own strained pants, the air swelling, suffocating him. He's been here before, the once, and he knows he should keep it that way, the border of inappropriateness threatening to be crossed. The emotions course through him; need and anger, the two that overwhelms the rest, a flame ignited, fuelled and burning away until nothing was left but ash.

He thinks of this, thinks of the possibilites or consequences that could happen, the awkward continuation of whatever this is or no continuation whatsoever; or, in some alternative universe, Wolfgang feels he can turn to Will at a time of vulnerability, yet in such a way Will isn't sure he wants to comfort him with. Exposed like this, not showing on the outside, but through their connection—what is even more fragile—is what he doesn't want to take advantage of, not wanting to take advantage of Wolfgang in any way. He means it as a cop, of the face of trust and morality, but as someone who cares about him.

"You aren't," Wolfgang says, possibly feeling the relucantance. "I know what I'm asking for. It isn't pity."

A moment passes, a long, smothering moment, until it breaks and Wolfgang lunges at him, shoving him up against the wall. One hand finds his neck and holds his jaw, his mouth sealing over Will's own. It's fast, scraping of teeth and breaking the skin of his lip so he tastes blood, but it doesn't matter because relief hits him square in the chest, not his but Wolfgang's, and it hurts, hurts to think why he would feel it so strongly, why he would feel it at all.

Will reaches round and clutches at Wolfgang's back, riding his jacket and shirt up until the slither of skin shows, warm under his palms. A shiver whips up his spine, reverberating into Will, and he lets out a sigh as Wolfgang runs a hand down his neck, down his back, resting at his waist, then dipping down to his thigh, lifting it slightly so he can open Will up and grind against him. Pleasure smashes into him, head falling back against the wall with a loud thuck, blended with the pain, and anger, and everything else that seems to co-exist; it becomes one, feeding the need to disperse it, even if it is a mistake, because Will knows the man in front of him makes them, if the leaks in their connection, the leaks that share secrets, the deepest, most private things, are anything to go by.

His vest comes off first, then Wolfgang's leather jacket, shirt and belt, following a trail to the floor, too busy to make it any further. The carpet chaffs against Will's back, sore by morning, but he's okay with that—he's okay with the thought that it came from being fucked by the man he hasn't been able to get out of his mind for days. Wolfgang bites down on his neck, a moan ripped from his throat in response, moving down until his skim over his stomach, muscles tightening.

He moans when Wolfgang yanks down his shorts, and mouths at his boxers, lining his cock with his tongue. "Fuck."

"Feeling a little lighthead—"

"I'm not going to faint," Will says, shaking his head; as his boxers are inched down, hands smoothing up and down his thighs, he scrunches his eyes shut, and lets out a short, breathy sigh. "Yet."

Wolfgang smirks, and like that, takes Will into his mouth. A emphany of curses leave Will's own in a string of muffling, as he bites down on his forearm, and whilst part of him is guilty, again, for what the others must be thinking, the other is not; the other wants to scream as Wolfgang sucks him down, hands stroking at the base, and tongue flicking over the tip of his cock as if he'd been waiting to do this as long as Will had. He leads him to the edge, waits until Will is thrusting into his mouth, a hand dragging its nails across the carpet, and the other cupping the back of Wolfgang's head. The thing that sends him over that edge, colliding with a wave of fucking brilliance, is the way Wolfgang grabs his head and links their fingers, squeezing tight. The ball unravels, and he moans his way through it, biting down on his lip doing nothing to stifle the cry, and even as he comes down, Wolfgang eases him through the last aftershocks with kisses to his skin.

As Will brings them in for another kiss, he unbuckles Wolfgang's jeans, reaching in until—

A hand wraps around his wrist and pulls it away. Will frowns, looking up in questioning, but Wolfgang only shakes his head, leans down and kisses him again. They stay that way for ten minutes, hands cupping Will's face, slowly kissing him, and then Wolfgang pulls away, and shockingly, tugs Will's shorts back up, redressing him. It makes Will wonder if this is Wolfgang at all.

"No," Wolfgang says, his gaze lingering. "Not tonight."

And, with no other word, he leaves, and the room feels cold again.

—

He avoids Will for the next twenty-four hours, and whenever close to making the connection, he thinks he hears Wolfgang say, "No."

—

On the night of the orchestra, Wolfgang finally leaves his mind.

The image of Riley, blood pouring from her nose, unexplainable yet the why an irrelevance, stays with him as he searches for her, because knows; as she is taken into an ambulance, away from safety, Whispers will come and take her away. Fate is in an open room, with different doors, and any of them could open. He doesn't plan, not when his gut orders him to book plane tickets, a instinct so strong he knows the others can feel it too. He does this, hours later on that plane, head throbbing and the sun outside the window too bright in his gaze. When he closes it, a different shadow looms over him.

"Blue," Wolfgang says in the seat beside him. "How much time do we have?"

"Not long."

Will looks down, sees the outline of what is unmistakeably a gun, and what he hates the most is that he isn't surprised. "Is that why you've been blocking me out? Whatever you're planning to do—is it what you want?"

"It isn't a matter of wanting," he says. "But what I need to do. What I always do. It's why Kala and I didn't work. Why you and I won't."

"She doesn't care," Will says. "I don't care."

And he's right; Kala doesn't care, can feel the strength of her mind and defiance, she feels for Wolfgang regardless of what he does or who he is. Yet, recently, he hasn't felt them together, and the other night makes him believe he and Kala are non-existent, the past. Guilt seeps into him, down to the root of his bones, an insufferable sorrow that won't leave him alone until it exhausts him.

Wolfgang stares at him, showing a brief smile. "I admire her bravery, as I do yours, but if anything were to happen to either of you, any of you, I would never ask for forgiveness because I would not deserve it." His voice quietens, yet loud in the silence of the plane, echoing throughout Will's skull. "I'll protect all of you, even it that means from myself."

Then, times slows down to a long-lasting, steady picture, one where Will wishes he had a camera to capture the moment. As the sun glints through the slit of the window, breaking in the clouds, casting a glow over Wolfgang's face, he reaches up and lays his hand on Will's cheek; his stubble scratches over his palm, the breath catching in Will's throat, but he holds onto it, not to shatter the vulnerability of the scene—one move, and it's gone. He clings onto it, just like he'd held onto that sigh from the first time they'd slept together, alone and free of the others, because it's special, an exceptional, splinter of moment, its gravity just as great as its value.

"Sometimes you make a mistake," Wolfgang finally says. "You've got two choices: you live with it, or you fix it."

As the connection is broken, Will isn't sure what Wolfgang was referring to.

—

He's been shot before, lodged in his gut that took ten hours to remove, the fear finding him when the sound of the gun fired; he's nearly ended up in a coma from falling three stories of a building, battered and bruised, the fear finding him when his foot slipped; he's failed to save a woman, the fear finding him when the monitor flatlined; he's felt so many different types of fear, but none of it compares to the fear that finds him when he looks into the eyes of Whispers.

—

The needle is sharp in his arm as he stabs it through skin.

Almost instantly, the effects take their hold, a haze blanketing his senses, severing all other connections with the sensates, one by one. He speaks to Riley, holding her hand, telling her to please, don't give up—he feels it, her distress, her pain of the loss of her husband and daughter, and he cries along with her. He cries, and he holds her. Cries, cries, cries, and as he parts with her, he calls for Wolfgang.

"You idiot," Wolfgang says, a frown in his brow, yet there's no malice. "You idiot."

Will manages a huff of laughter. "I know."

"This is your plan?" Hands cup his face, lifitng his head up to look Wolfgang in the eyes; a fog has clouded his vision, by the drug or tears, he's not sure, but he sees the outlines. It's all he needs. "Then what? You can't stay unconsious forever."

No, yes. He doesn't know. He may be a cop, the kind who should work from logic, yet that method has gone out the window in the last few days, but this isn't anything he's encountered before; connections, a man with the ability to track you with one look, read you like an open book, is terrifying, a bone-crushing terror that the others absorb and reflect back in their own ways, whether impulsion or rage, intelligence or sadness. It's a unity of personalities, something he still tries to comphrehend, but he's okay with it. He's okay.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to—"

"Is that enough?"

"Maybe," Will says. "Maybe not. Either way, as long as we're together, we can do this."

Wolfgang snorts, a harsh noise through his nose, hands clenching around Will's face. "You think so?"

"Yes." A swallow, thick in his throat, choking almost, strangle the words, but he carries on, speaking even though his slipping, and Wolfgang is disappearing in front of him, and soon he'll be swallowed up in the darkness, the fear finding him as Wolfgang's hushed voice distances out. "Wolfgang, right now, I need you. I need you."

Then, as he closes his eyes, he feels several things. The sensates support surrounding him, the rumbling of the ambulance's engine roaring to life, shaking as it runs over the gravelly road, and Wolfgang's thumb, stroking over his cheekbone. He focuses on that, as the last bits of unconsiousness drip into his mind, and he's thankful, thankful for these people around him to comfort him, ward off the fear whenever it tries to creep back into his life. He's ready, confident that they can beat Whispers, because together, together they're one, invisible, badass indiviudal.

—

"You saved us."

—

Wolfgang is always there in the few seconds he wakes.

On the boat, with his head in Riley's lap, Wolfgang leans down and presses his lipes against Will's forehead. As the sun sets—casting the eight in a mellow light—he smiles, even as the sun sets, and the unknown rises.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay—well. 
> 
> It ended quite quickly, I know. Things is, I'm still trying to capture the characters, and my memory is awful, so this was from some research yet the majority grasping blindly at whatever floated around in my mind. This heatwave (so very unlikely in the UK) has completely smothered me, causing my writing to suffer, but my endless love for this damn show, and other fanfics calling for my attention, like a Slice of Life McKirk, made me continue. Although slightly rushed, I hope you liked it, regardless. ♡


End file.
